No Greater Love
by medcat
Summary: Written for a prompt: "Post-Reichenbach. John finds the strength not to fall into despair. When Sherlock returns, John isn't glad but is insulted by the deceit, but Sherlock finds his own ways to get John to come around." Another story by vedma natka. As always, friendship only.


**Title:** "No Greater Love..."**  
Author:** Vedma_Natka

**Beta:** , DreamTheCyanide

**Disclaimer:** No financial profit is being made from this.

**A/N:** Any resemblance to ACD's work is not accidental.

**Translator's note:** I read this fic on a Russian SH fanwork site, holmesecret. ru. The author kindly granted me permission to translate to English and post.

* * *

The answer to the question, which John spent the most time trying to answer, was given to him by a line from a religious brochure.

Perhaps John really is an idiot, if the most important questions didn't occur to him immediately. Who called him and for what reason, sending him to Mrs Hudson's at just the right moment? Why did Sherlock lie to him when they spoke for the last time? And why would Sherlock, who could easily prove that he was a genius, need to take his life instead? John had an excuse for not thinking of these questions. He was simply getting used to living again.

To breathe, to eat, to talk, to get out of bed in the morning-everything he did he had to do by following a command he gave himself. Because that is what one must do. And this necessity preoccupied John nearly completely. But then it became habitual. Just like the dreams, in which Sherlock died again, in which again and again he could not escape the feeling of helplessness in the face of death.

In his dreams John cried, but he felt no better for the tears, and during the daytime he remained stoic. Something like the task for the day-to endure and not to transfer one's grief onto others. They will anyway not be able to take it onto themselves and won't reduce the heavy burden-so why do it? And he still had a task to perform, and, busy with the attempts not to show his despondence, he sometimes managed to forget why he was despondent. Not for long, just for moments at the time, but long enough to distract himself from it. He couldn't manage it for long because it turned out that John's heart was demanding. It didn't ache, it just existed and reminded that it did by strange sensations, as if it were having hot water poured over it or as if it had been placed into a plastic baggie, and now the unfortunate heart was separated from the body by a thin film, through which it is difficult to reach. And about this he kept silent. He didn't want to be pitied.

John understood perfectly well that when some people die, life continues for the others. One cannot become a medical doctor without acknowledging that fact. One cannot be a surgeon and not have a personal cemetery of patients who did not survive. John had one. And he had a second cemetery full of friends whom he lost in the war. But Sherlock was the only person who had no place in either cemetery. He was always special, and even his death didn't fit any of the usual criteria.

Only when the veil in front of his eyes, which had made the world flat and single-colour, not really dissipated but stopped being so thick, the questions came. And the answers followed. John was lured away, because it was necessary for Moriarty to force Sherlock to commit suicide. How? How could he have been forced? Perhaps John simply didn't want to believe his own ideas and that is why it took him so long to figure this out.

But one day, he was going home on the Underground and glanced at the brochure which the passenger sitting next to him was reading. Underneath the bright picture of Jesus, the following quotation was printed in bold font: "There is no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends."

That same evening, John got drunk. He couldn't believe it, but he couldn't fit the puzzle pieces together in any other way either.

In the morning he realised that he had a goal in his life again. To defend Sherlock's name became a matter of honour.

**Campaign Plan:**

1) An entry in his blog.

"_My faith is based on facts. Nobody can pretend for twenty-four hours a day for a year and a half. I knew Sherlock better than anyone else knew him, and he was truly a genius..."_

Comments:

"_There are no facts here, only speculation."_

"_And when my uncle once removed died..."_

"_Nonsense! Aren't you tired of making stuff up yet?"_

"_As for me, I believe in Sherlock!"_

"_Your writing's so boring."_

John decided not to check his blog for some time, since the comments were getting on his nerves.

2) Rebuttals in the papers.

"_And what, in your opinion, will this article be about? The friend of a madman who killed himself still believes him? And then your delirious theories? We don't interview lunatics, we're sorry, Mr. Watson."_

"_Not interested. Everybody forgot all about your Holmes long ago."_

"_You must understand, Dr Watson, that even if you are right, nobody will print anything like this. The only conclusion from your story is that the newspapers-all the newspapers that wrote about him being fake-drove a genius to suicide. Who wants this kind of story?"_

John decided that he would yet get back to them when he figures out how to prove that he is right.

3) Mycroft.

"_Mycroft, but aren't you at all concerned about Sherlock's reputation? I am aware that you weren't on the most friendly terms with him, but still, he was your brother. And won't this whole business damage your own reputation?"_

"_Thank you for your concern, John, but truly, it's quite unnecessary. I'll manage. And no matter what you think-I have no influence on the press."_

Mycroft was blatantly lying, but he had no way of proving that. John turned around and left. He will take this into account and will no longer appeal to somebody who so easily brushed Sherlock off.

But it was the conversation with Mycroft that helped John realise his mistake. He was trying to break through the wall by himself. But there have been people whom Sherlock helped. At least some of them must believe themselves, and not the press. At least some of them should support him, give interviews to the papers, write something on their blogs. Much can be done if one is waging war not solely by oneself.

At home, they were keeping a plethora of materials on cases that Sherlock investigated. It is good to have a goal in mind: John couldn't just force himself to stop by Baker Street for no reason. But since he had a reason, he went there. Mrs Hudson was predictably glad to see him and began to tell him about how her phone was ringing off the hook about Sherlock. People whom he helped, people who knew people whom he helped, were calling her and asking what kind of nonsense was being printed in the papers, as if Holmes's landlady could be responsible for it. John realised that he chose the right method. They chatted over a cup of tea, and Mrs Hudson promised to now refer those callers to John and to the reporters-oh, John had plenty of reporters' phone numbers now. "Unsubstantiated assertions made by a friend," you say? And how about the clients?

Then Mrs Hudson took him to the room piled high with stacks of boxes.

"I don't know how you will manage all of them, dear. There are so many of them, and the way everything is stacked inside...you understand, I'm sure. Only Sherlock could sort them out."

John sighed, and the good Mrs Hudson offered him her help in this as well. Thus, now there were two of them.

It would have been much easier, had Sherlock organised the materials properly. Having thought about organising the cases, John finally remembered Lestrade. No matter what one says, the police archives are organised in a much more orderly fashion.

John hasn't talked to the inspector after that ludicrous arrest. They saw each other at the funeral but didn't talk. Most likely, Greg felt guilty and didn't seek out ways to keep in touch, but now John needed him.

Watson simply picked up the receiver and made the call, that he hasn't been able to make for a month and a half. And Greg seemed happy to get the call.

They were sitting over beers in the pub "At the Gates" on Northumberland Street. A cozy place not far from home...former home. Perhaps too crowded a place, but what can one do if Lestrade and he were not the only ones to have appreciated its charm.

The bright light of the incandescent lamp emphasized the wrinkles on the inspector's face. They could have moved to the tables-the lighting was dimmer there-but they both liked sitting at the bar better.

John didn't stall too long and soon started on his topic of interest:

"I understand that the majority don't care either way. The papers wrote: 'oh look, he's a genius!' The readers' reaction: 'oh, wow!' The papers wrote: 'he's a fraud.' The readers' reaction: 'ew, how could he.' If there is a Holmes or there isn't a Holmes-they couldn't care less. I can't understand you. Because you are an intelligent man and couldn't have believed the nonsense about Sherlock being a liar and a fraud."

"There is no need to try to convince me-I agree with you. D'you really think that when Sherlock came to me with his daft ideas, that I didn't verify them? Didn't check his deductions five times over? I wasn't born yesterday and I'm not overly gullible, and my profession isn't the kind that would make me likely to trust a random person off the street either. Besides, it is practically impossible to deceive the police to this extent; he'd have to have been not only a genius, but to possess such connections and such an amount of money that you and I have never even dreamed of. And where would he have been hiding his millions?"

Watson smiled. Sherlock as a millionaire was a funny concept. Wonder what he would have spent such an amount of money on? Would he have been giving grants to chemistry labs or to the scientists who search for a medication to increase human IQ?

"So why didn't you refute it?" John put his mug back on the counter. Full of dark beer, the mug looked good on the stained wood background.

"Forgive me, nobody asked me much, and to try to prove something to those who didn't care about it...I was somewhat preoccupied with other matters."

John recalled his and Sherlock's escape, but decided to clarify just in case:

"Trouble at work?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

He should have figured it out earlier that his and Sherlock's antics didn't pass without consequences for the Detective Inspector, who'd covered up for the two of them for so long.

"Me too. You needed support, and I was too busy with my own stuff," acknowledged Greg.

Ah, a fitting moment!

"I still need support now. I hope you will help."

"I'll try," answered Lestrade cautiously.

Naturally, he agreed to help in the campaign to clear Sherlock's name. Inspector took it upon himself to investigate how real the actor Richard Brook was, and promised to get to Moriarty's case file if possible. They couldn't have had him in court without establishing his identity, which meant that there were some documents verifying it. And since now there was doubt as to whether the documents were genuine, it was worthwhile to check if they were fake. So, now it was three of them.

The feeling of helplessness passed. John realised that he wasn't lonely even for a minute, it was simply that he had retreated into his grief, which wasn't only his actually. Because he wasn't the only one who missed Sherlock. Having sorted out his feelings and reproached himself a little for his lack of consideration, he remembered that it had been a while since he updated his blog. There were a lot more comments-in the comments to the last entry, Sherlock's defendants showed up. Some argued out of sheer stubbornness; two clients (Jack Peters-burglary at his aunt's, and the police suspected him, but Sherlock found the real culprit; and Robert Saint-Simon, whose bride Sherlock found-a kidnapping was suspected, but it turned out that Frances got tangled up in her promises and ran away from both her grooms, to consider her fate) came by to ask John where the newspapers got the heresy about Sherlock's fake genius from, and got embroiled in the argument.

John sighed: it's not too pleasant to have to read all this attentively, but he had to, to decide what to delete and how to reply to some of the comments.

Having read it all, he almost seriously started considering that maybe he should just ban everyone, the heck with them all, and to remove the entry from public view? And therefore, he didn't pay attention to the sound of the front door closing-he decided that it was the noise carrying over from the neighbours, but he turned when the door to the room opened. The landlord had keys to the flat, of course, but why would he have come without calling first?

Sherlock entered the room. He looked out of place here. Somewhere on the periphery of his mind, a thought flitted by that probably Sherlock would have looked more natural in this environment if he were dressed in his usual outfit and coat. But he was wearing jeans and a green jacket, and a baseball cap with a picture of the Tower on it.

Having quickly glanced around, Sherlock crossed the room in three strides and sharply drew the blinds. He turned towards John, moved towards him and suddenly froze in place, smiling embarrassedly and happily.

"Hello, John," he breathed out, in a slightly hoarse voice, as if he had kept silent too long and now he discovered that he'd gotten out of the habit of talking.

John felt as if a hole formed itself in the middle of him, and there was a noticeable draught through it. Tickling the edges of the hole on the chest and on his back, the air went through John, almost making a whistling sound. And he couldn't draw in a normal breath. That hole had to be plugged up immediately.

"Sher..." breathed out John, jumped up from his armchair, almost knocking it over, and stepped towards his friend. John hugged Sherlock, unable to trust his senses, almost convinced that he was seeing a pleasant dream. He moved aside a bit to take another look: "Sherlock, is it you? Alive?"

Sherlock was nodding and smiling, a little guiltily.

"Alive, as you can see," he lifted his hands a little, in a stilted and ludicrous-for him-gesture. As if he were embarrassed. It was unlikely, of course: Sherlock and embarrassment. But it did look rather like he was.

"I can't believe this. How? What for?" John was shaking. Waves of joy became in turn disbelief, puzzlement, confusion. It was too difficult to take in this sudden resurrection, to accept this happiness and to chase away an out-of-place, odd displeasure. The contradiction of his feelings was pulling him apart.

Sherlock tossed his head, took a step back and then proclaimed in an overly chipper voice:

"You haven't fallen apart during this time; I am glad. There was concern that you would yield to foolish emotions. But you've managed rather well. And this campaign to clear my name," he stared at the wall and seemingly forgot what he was about to say, then shook himself. "It was...touching."

Astonishing, how painfully these words struck John. And how foolish everything seemed that he had felt and done during the time when he thought Sherlock was dead. His fury came to a boiling point immediately. Starting in the solar plexus, it rose to his throat, made John jump.

"How can you? How dare you?" by the end of the sentence John was yelling. Then he fell silent, breathing hard and looking at Sherlock accusingly.

For the first couple of seconds, Sherlock seemed dumbfounded by the onslaught. He opened his eyes wide and opened his mouth slightly, about to say something, but remained silent. On his expressive face one could easily read: "Oh, John and these strange feelings of his. Hope this'll be over soon. No, seems it's not as simple as that."

While Sherlock was demonstrating the range of his facial expressions, a lump of anger fluttered inside John, his hands trembled, and he clenched them into fists. But when Sherlock, looking to the side and putting on the expression of "I hoped this would blow over, but what can I do if you need that", started to apologise, weakly and unconvincingly, John lost it. Having taken a good swing, he nearly punched Sherlock in the nose, but relented at the last moment. His fist hit Sherlock's cheek. John breathed out and said in a voice choked from held back emotions:

"Consider your apologies accepted."

He was lying, of course. He didn't forgive Sherlock yet, but neither could John beat Sherlock half to death, although he wanted to.

Sherlock pressed his hand to his cheek.

"Hope that made you feel better. I understand that you need compensation for your for your worries, but we haven't much time..." He didn't seem to feel bothered by it at all.

It all seems elementary to him: John needed to hit him to calm down, and Sherlock needed a calm John; one punch is an acceptable fee. And then we go on. But it didn't seem so simple to John.

John wanted to yell again, but now he was already able to restrain himself. Most likely because it brought him no satisfaction anyhow. If you yell at Holmes or beat him- it's still no use, he is not affected by it. John is the only one whom it bothers.

"You know, why don't you go to..." began John, and looked at Sherlock: Sherlock seemed to shrink into himself, and John imagined him actually turning around and leaving...Oh no! To let him go just like that? It will take this prodigal detective a long time to expiate his guilt. And John finished the sentence awkwardly, "...to Mrs Hudson, make her happy. And try not to frighten her. It's best not to play around with an elderly person's heart."

Sherlock waved it away:

"She is aware, John. Do you really think that I don't care about our precious landlady? But listen, we have a case."

Does he really not understand or does he simply not want to understand? John scrutinised Sherlock carefully: he was impatience personified. Leaning forward, he was no longer pressing his hand to his face and seemingly forgot about the pain, as he was so much in his element. Naturally, he didn't even think about the feelings he caused. Just as usual. Well then, perhaps John will succeed in surprising Sherlock by the fact that the old rules are no longer in effect. And "we must dash" no longer means that John will answer "Yes, Sir" and actually run behind Sherlock.

"To participate in your cases? You'll have to excuse me from it." Surprise and a note of contempt in his tone of voice. Sherlock'll understand. Maybe not right away, but he will.

Sherlock frowned and turned the baseball cap backwards for some reason:

"I can't. It's not my case but ours. You are in danger."

A bitter taste was flooding his mouth, but his heart was treacherously fluttering-he got a whiff of their accustomed, almost intimate, walking together on the edge of the abyss, just the two of them. John attempted once more to distance himself, while knowing in his heart that he has already started to give in:

"Really? Why is that?" The scepticism in his voice could have poisoned half the street, were it not too exaggerated. Sherlock couldn't fail to notice that fact.

And of course, Sherlock noticed. He began to order John about right away:

"Because I am still alive. Get ready, John. Put this on and don't forget your revolver." Sherlock tossed the bag he'd been holding to John.

"Moriarty again?" asked John, incredulously.

Shaking his head in the negative, Sherlock perched on the edge of the table and started to shuffle the papers on the table about.

"He's not the only one who can hire assassins. I'll explain later. John, hurry up!"

John froze for a minute-it was all too much, too quickly; and now he also had to decide if he was ready to follow Holmes, just like he used to before. And he realised-he wasn't ready to do it just like he used to before. He'd follow, but doubtfully. Because the danger could indeed turn out to be real. And it would be silly if Sherlock truly came to rescue him, and John would act stubbornly, like a boy whose feelings had been hurt. But there had been too many lies for his trust to remain as before. Well, he made his decision: he would give Sherlock a chance, and if Sherlock's lying again, then it really will be the last time he lies to John. John simply won't give his former friend any more opportunities.

Having made this decision, he almost calmed down. He laid his hurt feelings aside-because they could interfere; when it's truly dangerous is no time to be busy with the sufferings of one's soul.

The bag turned out to contain a reddish-brownish coloured sports jacket with the logo "San Francisco Giants" across the front, a blond curly wig, a stars-and-stripes baseball cap, and sunglasses.

"Sherlock, are you serious? You are offering me to put this on?" John shook the wig, holding it squeamishly by one lock of hair."

"Yes, I'm serious. Look, I'm wearing a wig too," Sherlock waved his hand near his temple.

John hadn't noticed, but yes, Sherlock now had straight hair, pulled into a ponytail. The hairdo was mostly hidden by the baseball cap, though.

"I don't know how to put it on!" His displeasure with Holmes was transferred onto the unfortunate wig, although the wig was certainly not to blame. John realised that it was petty of him, but he simply couldn't stop himself.

Sherlock assumed his usual tone, in which he had talked John into many mad enterprises before. He began to drive his point home:

"There, like this: take it by the edges, just like a cap, and put it on. I'll pull it straight so it fits well. And don't give it such a look, the wig isn't going to bite you!"

"Why do I always feel like an idiot in your company?" asked John. It was perfectly obvious that whether he argued or not, he'll still carry out yet another one of Sherlock's whims.

The detective snorted. But at least he didn't answer, "Because you _are_ an idiot." Instead, he said appeasingly:

"It's just camouflage. Don't dawdle."

Sherlock came up to John and helped him to hold the ill-fated wig straight. And John found it somehow easier to breathe because of Sherlock's rare gentleness. John stopped being stubborn.

They tumbled out the front door laughing, shoving each other with their elbows and chewing gum. John, in addition, immediately took his camera out of its case and snapped a photo of the nearby tree. As he did, he nearly ran into a homeless man pushing a cart with a cardboard box from the fridge in it.

Nobody was hurt, but John apologised repeatedly, diligently adding a heavy American accent to his speech.

"You're overacting, John!" Sherlock remarked.

"Just getting into the role." John wasn't going to pay attention to Sherlock's nit-picking.

After they'd walked for several blocks, gesturing wildly, talking loudly and in general, portraying swaggering Yankees, they bought a couple of cans of energy drinks and sandwiches on the way- to John's profound surprise, Sherlock warned him that they might have to lie in ambush for a while, so it would be a good idea to buy some food beforehand. Sherlock, taking care of minor everyday matters- that was something new in his repertoire. Only forty-seven days have passed since the time of his supposed suicide, but those days have divided them in an almost insurmountable manner.

John thought "only", whereas only an hour ago it was _already _forty-seven days without Sherlock.

They stopped at the curb. Sherlock started peering closely at the stream of cars. John could hold it in no longer:

"What are you looking for?"

"Nothing. I was merely letting the cabs go by. Three empty ones just drove past, and now we can hail one." Sherlock's words were not at odds with his actions, he immediately started vigorously waving his arm up and down.

"You never used to do that before," John noted. Yet another change. Yet another reminder of the abyss which lay between them.

"True, and with great frequency, I used to run into cab drivers who intended to kill me," snorted the detective.

"A rare piece of luck," John agreed, and they laughed.

Sherlock asked to be driven to the Vauxhall arcs, which John remembered because of their unsuccessful attempt to catch the Golem there.

"Whom are we going to be catching this time?" John attempted to continue the conversation in a lighthearted manner.

But Sherlock answered, somewhat curtly:

"You'll see," and lowered his gaze to his iPhone, sending and receiving text messages.

John stared out the window. A short break would perhaps be in order, he thought. He hasn't even had the time to properly realise the fact that Sherlock is alive, and wasn't able to fully believe it yet, either. John furtively glanced at his miraculously resurrected friend. He wanted to touch Sherlock, to convince himself once again that it was not a dream. John pressed his lips together and turned away. Oh no! Sherlock is not a dream, a mirage, or a hallucination. And if John now begins to demonstrate "unnecessary emotions," then he'll get acerbic remarks from this non-hallucination, the remarks which will make his vision grow dark. Therefore, it's better to keep looking out the window.

Just as John suspected, they were going to pay a visit to the homeless. As the two of them were approaching the viaduct, a train rumbled over it. Garbage was scattered everywhere around, the brown bricks were covered with a whitish tarnish. It was dark under the arches even in the daytime. Not the most pleasant of places. John checked his revolver-it's possible that Sherlock had been associating with these people and even trusted them after his fashion, but they evoked no kindly feelings on Captain Watson's part. Just now, all was calm here: the place to spend the night is empty during the day, while drunk senseless people are looking for food.

Sherlock was purposefully striding toward a shabby likeness of a house, which stood slightly higher than the other hovels. An elderly man, still sturdy, not too corroded by liquor, came out of the house and walked towards them. John stood calmly, as if bored, whilst Sherlock conducted his negotiations with the chief of the beggars. Meanwhile, though, John was carefully looking around and listening. It made him recall Afghanistan-everything is seemingly peaceful, but it is best to be on one's guard. The shacks themselves also reminded him those in which many families of the devastated country huddled. Same kind of structures, hardly suitable for living in them, looking like piles of ordered trash. Although, in the hotter climate, there were no such permanent wet spots and mould as those temporary structures displayed. The smell was different too, although in Afghanistan, it didn't smell of roses either. Finally, the homeless man called a Monty and a Sue, and Sherlock kept on walking. Suddenly, he dived into one of the structures, calling out,

"Wait a moment, I'll be right back," and came out in a couple of minutes with a typical shabby plaid tote bag, which the beggars favour so much. The bag turned out to contain an elegant raincoat for Sherlock and a new pile of ungainly clothing for John. Sherlock pressed his lips together, when Watson squeamishly sniffed at the jacket.

"The clothes are used but clean, don't worry so much, John. Get changed." Sherlock was hurrying him on.

"How absurd. As if we were playing spies, and this hat...what is this, a James Bond adventure?" John shook the broad-brimmed black hat, which the detective had thrust at him.

"Quite right, a James Bond adventure. Foolish, as the rules of the genre demand. Enjoy it."

John couldn't help chuckling.

Sue turned out to be a woman of the same height as John, Monty was an old man of Sherlock's height. John understood the plan, but thought that the plan was a rather shaky one. Only from far away could one mistake these two homeless people wearing the same clothes and wigs that Watson and Holmes wore when they came here, for John and Sherlock.

"Actually, I'm almost certain that we're not being followed," the detective said.

"But you're still ensuring our safety nonetheless. Charming!"

John was somewhat irritated-a woman is going to portray him! In addition, he suspected that Sherlock guessed the cause of his irritation, which annoyed him even more.

Finally, everybody finished changing, and the two duos went in opposite directions. Sherlock led John to a slightly shabby gray Oppel. Seeing John's questioning look, he explained:

"I rented it."

Having gotten into the driver's seat, he opened the door, not doubting in the slightest that his friend will settle himself next to him. John did not object, and, getting into the front seat, said,

"Actually, I wanted to ask: where are we going now?"

"To MI-6," Sherlock flung off, offhandedly.

"I hope we will get in there legitimately?" John inquired suspiciously, recalling their running around Baskerville with Mycroft's pass.

"More than," Sherlock screwed up his face, "I am now working there. In an official capacity."

The concept of Sherlock working for the government really boggled John's mind. He asked, somewhat confusedly:

"So you weren't joking about the spy games? Ah yes, I see, Mycroft."

"How you like to discuss the obvious. It goes without saying that it was Mycroft who helped me stage my suicide. Who else has enough technical means for something of that nature?"

"How did you manage it?"

"I'll tell you later. You probably want details, don't you?" Sherlock was obviously anticipating how he'll show off his genius, and that made John lose interest immediately. He wasn't going to admire how elegantly he had been deceived. Leaning his head to the side, he asked,

"Sherlock, don't you think that I'll attract too much attention wearing this kind of getup?" and poked at the annoying headgear. Then again, what wasn't annoying him at present?

"You'll attract attention all right, but that's good. You'll be taken for an informer who is too scared that he'll be recognised. So don't forget to pull the hat firmly down onto your forehead, to wind the scarf high up around your neck and to cast nervous glances all around you," Sherlock instructed.

"That's original."

"Main thing is, it's effective. Nobody will recognise John Watson in a fellow who looks like this."

Having glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, John agreed. He wouldn't have even recognised himself at this time.

They went by the roundabout route-for some reason, they crossed the Waterloo Bridge to reach the northern shore and returned via Vauxhall Bridge, driving right up to the building of the reconnaissance headquarters. John didn't even ask if the reason was traffic jams or the possibility of being followed. He still didn't want to give Sherlock yet another reason to demonstrate his superior intellect. He didn't want to make Sherlock happy in general. He was still seething.

John has never longed to visit inside the famous "Babylon on the Thames", but now he became curious. Inadvertently, he recalled the scandal caused by overspending on the building of this bulletproof monster, and that the ten visible storeys are not the entire building, because there are at least five underground ones. He wondered how Sherlock intended to get him into such a highly protected territory.

That's when Sherlock demanded of John, who had fallen into a reverie, to give him the pistol.

"I have full access, I can enter with weapons, whereas you will have a difficult time getting in even without a pistol."

They left the car outside. Using Sherlock's pass, they went through the first automated entrance into a small foyer with stone-faced walls. While Sherlock was talking on the phone, John was counting the security cameras. He has found twelve of them, and that's when Sherlock instructed him to take off the hat and scarf: John got photographed by a phone camera, the flash blinding him. They moved over to a closed steel window. A noise was soon heard behind the panels. Sherlock opened them, revealing a single-use card. One could enter now, using that card, and to exit no more than eight hours later.

It was enough to make one's head spin. A phantasmagoria with John in the leading role. Metal, glass, high technology, secrecy all around him, and confusion and bewilderment in his soul, diluted by a soupcon of perplexity. Only Sherlock knew how to drag him into such reckless ventures. And the adventure didn't have any intention of ending. There was another automaton waiting for them further on, there they had to pass one by one. Sherlock recited the digital code to John that John would have to enter, made him repeat it aloud and ducked into the automatic door.

John went through the adjacent door, slid in his card and dialed 7826. That opened a door into a round lift that was so narrow that entering it, John realised what claustrophobia was. Were John any bigger, he wouldn't have been able to turn around in that lift without brushing its walls with his shoulders. There were no buttons in the capsule; the doors slid shut by themselves, as soon as he entered. The lift started moving with a whistling sound, but whether up or down was unclear. Sherlock met him by the lift, reminded him to cover his face and led him through a maze of corridors-to his own office, as it turned out. How strange it was to consider that Sherlock-even though only temporarily, for some secret reasons of his own-is now a state official with his own private office! That was just such nonsense that simply boggled the mind.

The premises turned out to be fairly small and uncomfortable: narrow and long, naked walls painted a pale green colour were decorated only with a lithograph of the Thames hanging above a beige couch. John looked at the indentations which had already begun to form on the couch and realised that Sherlock has been spending the night here often. The desk was in a state of artistic disarray: computer, covered with stickers, three unwashed mugs, a mass of papers-indeed, how else would it be? A bookcase was visible behind the desk, two chairs near the room's entrance-that made up the whole of the interior. The windows, for some reason, were covered by thick drapes as well as by vertical blinds.

Sherlock turned the key in the door, and something broke inside John. He hopped over to his friend, grabbed him by the shoulders, and asked,

"What kind of impossible person are you? You haven't even let me be glad that you are alive. And you haven't told me how you managed to survive, either!"

"I'm sorry, John, but there's still no time for that. Soon we'll sort everything out." Sherlock glanced at his mobile. "In just about five minutes, the game will start."

Sherlock being his usual self-he won't rest till he makes others do what he wants. John postponed the questioning for later.

"Your games again! Good God! All right, tell me, what do I need to do?"

Sherlock walked over to this computer-the computer was on-inserted the flash drive and started typing something, while explaining at the same time:

"You'll be the ace up my sleeve. The people who helped me to deceive Moriarty learned my vulnerabilities at the same time. And recently I had dug up something about the double game some of them are playing, so they will, most likely, make use of the information about my weaknesses."

"Are they going to blackmail you?" John got worried. He couldn't remain indifferent to Sherlock's problems. No matter how angry he was-he still couldn't.

"Yes. But I'm not going to fall for the same trick a second time. That's why you're here. I'm going to hide you now and I am asking you to wait very calmly. I'll call you when I need you. Of course, an unforeseen situation might arise, but I doubt that anyone would have the guts to actually attack me."

"I'll be at the ready," John promised.

"I know. That's it, John, hide behind the curtain. This curtain, the one behind the bookcase. I have to switch over the cameras."

"What for?" John asked, surprised.

"Up till now, I was broadcasting the recording from the day before yesterday, but soon, my opponent will receive an interesting letter, and I'm sure that he'll tap into the cameras himself. I wouldn't want him to notice any traces of my intervention."

"That's high tech," John muttered.

Sherlock laughed:

"Oh yes, the technology grows ever more sophisticated, but it's used for all the same purposes: deceit, traps, bluffing and losing draughts. The human nature is immutable."

He was obviously enjoying himself. Having given the pistol back to John, he looked with a critical eye at how well John had hidden himself, and demanded,

"That's it, John, now keep silent and still."

Judging by the sounds, Sherlock sat down at the computer and began typing something.

Standing behind the curtain and waiting for who knows what would normally be boring. But not when it was in the room with the just-resurrected Sherlock. How did he manage to deceive everybody, given that he fell right in front of John? John swallowed-that memory was still too painful. Despite the fact that Sherlock survived and was running about, getting into scrapes, just as before, what had happened left a mark in John's soul, and whether that mark would smooth out, John did not know yet.

And another thing John realised was that he was angry. To be honest, during this time he'd succeeded in idealising Sherlock's image a little, to slightly spackle over his faults, and most of all- to invent noble aspirations for him, which excused everything. But now, having run up against the living Holmes, John began to doubt whether his conclusions were correct, whether what he had thought up was compatible with the real Sherlock, who was not at all inclined to worry about those around him. But...what was he blackmailed with, then, if not with the lives of those close to him?

John was quite mixed up in his conclusions and resentments, when someone knocked on the door. He started listening more closely. There, Sherlock has gotten up and opened the door.

"Hello, Colonel. Come in. So what brings you here?"

The other party answered-the voice sounded mature. John hypothesized that its owner is between thirty and forty years of age. What an inconvenient thing it is to rely only on one's sense of hearing!

"Hello, Holmes. I think that you and I, being intelligent people, can do without those preliminary dances. You know why I've come here."

Sherlock snorted. John was sure it was because this colonel counted himself among intelligent people, whereas Sherlock did not agree. Business as usual.

"I would say that I can guess _why_ you are here, but for what exact reason-no; there are too many possibilities," Sherlock answered.

"There is certain information which you possess and which I wouldn't want being made widely available," the colonel got down to business straight away.

"That is true," Sherlock interrupted mockingly. "But here's my question: why should I accede to your wishes?"

"An excellent question, Mr. Holmes. You know, it's a question of stakes in a game. There are insignificant ones, such as which side you're on, how power will be divided, and even who is selling information to the intelligence agencies of other countries, and then there are real stakes: life and health. Your own or that of people close to you."

"Somebody sold a couple of secrets of little value to the East? What a trifle in comparison to the fact that somebody, burdened with an important assignment, was negligent in his duties and did not find out all the snipers who had threatened your friends, Mr. Holmes. And imagine, now Dr. Watson's life is in danger again. But I'm willing to help. I learned about this sniper entirely by chance, and now we can be in time to save your friend," Sherlock's vis-a-vis spoke about this threat so worriedly, as if he were really concerned about John's life.

"Is that right," Sherlock remarked, surprised. "And for the sake of this help I shall have to forget about certain, as you said, 'insignificant' information?"

Sherlock was also convincing: had he not warned John beforehand, John could have believed that his friend was backed into a corner. It often seemed to John that, in his small performances in front of witnesses, the detective was overdoing it, but now Sherlock deserved applause and the very best reviews from theatre critics.

"How can one talk of settling accounts when someone is in trouble? I simply believe that you will take care of a person who is so concerned about your friend's welfare. Because even if we save Dr Watson now, a new threat can arise at any time!"

"Indeed," drawled Sherlock. "Makes one think about the burden of relationships."

John closed his eyes for a moment. It's a show, he's simply putting on a show for the other party's benefit. Sherlock is showing feigned indifference specially for conversation partner, rather than trying to wound John again.

"In our business, visualisation is best. Allow me to use your computer," the colonel's tone grew somewhat impatient.

" 'Help yourself', as our American partners like to say."

John heard the chair roll away, the keyboard rustle, then the colonel began muttering something and cursing.

"Need some help?" Sherlock offered solicitously.

"Damn contraption! Go ahead, maybe you can get it to work. I wanted to bring up on the screen information from one of the cameras in zone 4."

"Oh, that's easy. Tell me the number of the camera," Sherlock responded in a businesslike tone.

"Q32F3-12."

Sherlock snorted and shuffled the mouse around. His conversation partner chuckled:

"I should've guessed that you were checking up on how Dr Watson is doing."

"Naturally, I've been checking up on him," Sherlock responded dispassionately. "So what?"

John told himself: there, you see, Sherlock really had been concerned. In his own way, in the way he could and in the way he knew how to. But somehow that didn't make him feel any warmer.

"Wait a bit, take a look at your friend...or should I say, lover?"

In a silent howl to the heavens: "What for?" John rolled his eyes. Perhaps it would have been simpler to sleep once with Sherlock, so that the guesses of people around them would have a foundation, rather than struggle with this common desire to consider them a couple. It's just that friendship is out of favour these days, unfortunately.

"Call him whatever you prefer. Although, frankly, I don't understand what you're getting at, and I find the sight of John working at his computer rather monotonous," Sherlock continued in an even tone of voice.

"How is that- ohn working at his computer?" John thought with surprise, as he stood behind the curtain. Ah, it must be trickery with the recordings again!

Sherlock's conversation partner sighed noisily.

"Still, go ahead and look. Perhaps it's for the last time."

There was noise and then Sherlock's choked voice:

"What do you mean by that, you bastard?"

Watson tensed up, ready for action.

"Keep your head, Mr Holmes," the colonel rasped, "I am the one giving orders now, not you. If I give the signal, your friend will be shot."

Again, there was noise and the sound of footsteps. Understandable- Sherlock let the colonel go, and one of them has stepped away. In a voice in which one heard barely restrained fury, Sherlock asked,

"How would I know that it's not a bluff?"

"I enjoy feeling that I've been provident, Mr Holmes. Sit down in the armchair, and I'll explain."

Noise, rustling, footsteps. The colonel's voice grew more distant- he must've moved closer to the door, farther away from Sherlock.

"It's much more difficult to hire a sniper not to kill but to wound. A dead man won't call the police, with a wounded one, that's trickier."

"Obviously," Sherlock agreed, impatiently. "And you are hinting...?"

"I'm not hinting, look at the screen..."

There was clatter and Sherlock's scream:

"Murderer! Scum! I'll kill you!"

His heart pumping, John pulled out his pistol, but he wasn't yet sure that this was the time of his entrance.

The colonel screamed back:

"Wait! He's only wounded! Stop..."

There was a shot. Oh no! Not now! John stumbled from behind the curtain, very afraid to see his friend dead, now for real. Sherlock-alive!-was struggling with a man of about his height: he was twisting the man's left wrist, trying to force him to drop the pistol, and was choking him with the free arm, pressing him against the door. The man was wheezing and defending himself. John leaped over to the fighters, hit the opponent upside his head with the pistol, and grabbed Sherlock's arms:

"Let him go, you'll choke him to death."

"John," Sherlock breathed out. "John!"

He relaxed his grip-the man fell down, Sherlock laughed hysterically and plopped down on the floor next to him. John picked up the man's pistol, took a look at Sherlock and led him to the sofa.

"What on earth is the matter with you?"

Sherlock was shaking his head, protesting, and finally admitted it:

"I lost it, John. I'd planned for this, I knew what they would show me, but I have seen it for too long in my nightmares how Moriarty's snipers are killing you all. I lost it when they were shooting at you...even though I knew that it wasn't actually you!"

A revolting metallic taste seemingly pressed down on his tongue, barely letting him get the words out:

"So who were they shooting at..." the words "instead of me" simply didn't come out.

"At a remote-controlled mannequin," and without a transition, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket, Sherlock said, "Take these, put them on him, he could come around soon."

John nodded readily- to render the opponent harmless is the first priority, questions later...but very soon.

Perhaps it was just as well that John wasn't looking at Sherlock right now, because this way the genius most likely wouldn't be able to read John's thoughts. His relief not only because Sherlock was alive, but because John wasn't mistaken in figuring out the motives of the "suicide", his friends really wanted to protect him and was always near him in thought. Sherlock wouldn't notice his fading resentment and the shame for the resentment, which came in its stead. That's all right though, in a moment John will get a grip on himself and that will pass too.

Having sat the man on the chair, Watson pulled the man's arms back and handcuffed him, threading the handcuffs chain between the metal rods of the chair's back. The chairs here turned out to be very handy.

He looked at the bullet mark on the ceiling-it's amazing how things are set up here, in the reconnaissance department: somebody was shooting in the office, but nobody has rushed in to find out what's going on until now. As if they had all gone deaf, or if shots here are such an everyday thing that they are not worth paying any attention to them.

He stood in front of Sherlock and asked,

"And now explain in detail."

He wasn't all that interested in talking about the case, but this was Sherlock, to whom it was always important to show off before John, and so let him tell the story, astonish, and enjoy the opportunity to perform in front of his customary audience after a long break. And Sherlock happily began rattling off:

"A project 'Wax Figures' to protect well-known individuals has existed for some time. Remote-controlled mannequins, which successfully imitate living people. These mannequins are used in public events: for instance, when the queen must ride in an open car through the ecstatic crowd. You know, earlier they used living doubles, but some considered it unethical, and some considered it dangerous, because a living double can turn out to be untrustworthy. Especially since they were chosen based only on resemblance in looks."

"Amazing," said John, just as in the good old times, trying to fit the astonishing piece of news into his mind.

Sherlock continued:

"Yes, quite so, now instead of people, mannequins are used as doubles, one of which today stood in for you in your flat. And I was shown how you... I mean, the mannequin, was shot at."

"But what for? I mean, why this whole performance, given you'd known already?"- to show interest, maybe a little mechanically, rather than to keep silent, because if John keeps silent, he is too preoccupied with his own thoughts.

"A ridiculous question. It's not enough to know who the criminal is, one needs proof, connections. It's not enough to arrest the traitor, it's necessary to find out as much as possible about him, then it's easier to force him to reveal the remaining information. And this way, we found out his sniper and the person helping him with computers. Now we'll put pressure on them."

Sherlock was happy- he completed the task, got John back, and everything was right in his world at present. And John massaged his temples and asked about something which interested him more than this case with traitors in MI-6.

"And whom else was Moriarty threatening, besides me?"

"Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, but don't worry, they're safe, I thought of everything. I'm not going to lose my friends because of somebody else's ambitions," now everything seemed so simple, when the case is finished, and the friends are safe.

John smiled,

"You should maybe let them know, at least, that they were granted the rank of friends. It will be important for them to know that. I, at least, am aware."

"Do you think it necessary?" Sherlock asked doubtfully.

"Absolutely necessary," John said firmly. He thought for a moment and added, "Thank you for fulfilling my request."

Surprised, Sherlock looked at him with a clear childlike gaze, waiting for him to continue, and heard:

"Thank you for coming back."

Because after all, it really needed to be said aloud. Not to follow Sherlock's example, who never did manage to ask forgiveness properly, but to forgive him all his past sins. Most likely, he will soon acquire plenty of new ones, and John again will take offense and then forgive, but that is wonderful too, because only those who are alive can accumulate new sins.

John remembered about the mannequin in his flat only when Sherlock said,

"Let's go to your place, to let Tommy out."

By that time, they turned the colonel in to the security department, gave their statements, drank a few cups each of disgusting coffee-everything just like in the good old times.

John wondered which Tommy Sherlock was talking about, and asked doubtfully,

"Does the mannequin have a name?"

"No, the person operating the mannequin has a name."

They were riding through the nighttime London. The lights of street lamps and signs, windows and advertisements filled the streets now with warm gold, now with cold and anxiety. John was looking at them, and the day's tension was draining out of him. He suddenly felt that he wanted to quietly shout out of happiness, the same happiness which surreptitiously poured into him after he let go of his resentment. Even though Sherlock could never express his feelings properly, John should have long ago learned to understand him without any special words. It wasn't words that expressed their friendship, was it? After all, John had to simply believe, in the same way as he has always believed in Sherlock. He smiled and looked at Sherlock, but couldn't find any words. Sherlock looked away from the road for a second and smiled back at John. It seemed like he understood everything, he really is a genius, one doesn't have to tell him-understood John and went limp, dozing off in the cozy warmth of the car.

For some reason, John thought that an employee of the Intelligence Service was operating the mannequin, but he was mistaken. Tommy turned out to be a homeless man, the same one they ran into near the entrance to the building. The fridge box was standing in the hall, and John realised that the mannequin had been brought into the house in that very box. Indeed, when one is being watched by video cameras, one has to resort to tricks.

Tommy happily accepted the money and left with his cart, but without the Intelligence Service's property this time. A characteristic smell was left in the hallway, and John thought that they'd need to thoroughly clean the flat-who knows what kind of germs this man was carrying, and they didn't know what he had touched. Sherlock rubbed his hands and asked:

"When are you going to move back to our place?"

"To Baker Street?" John laughed. "I could move right now, I just need to get a few things and to let Mrs Hudson know-perhaps it's not a convenient time for her."

"So why are you standing there? Pack your things, I'll call her."

"Isn't it a bit late?"

"Considering that her double was picked up from her flat only a short time ago, Mrs Hudson is not asleep. You know, she insisted on operating her mannequin herself."

John smiled, pleased at the fighting spirit of their wonderful landlady, and went to pull out his overnight bag. It was pleasant to realise that the period of his life without Sherlock was over. And he wanted to shut the door on that chilly time, the sooner the better. He was packing his toothbrush, when Sherlock, who already talked with Mrs Hudson and was back to rifling through John's papers, came across the clipping from that very brochure. He read, enunciating:

"There is no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends," and snorted. "What over-emotional nonsense. It's much better to survive for one's friends."

John looked at him and agreed,

"Indeed, it is much better. Throw it out."

The paper fluttered away into the rubbish bin.

Everything was returning to its usual order.


End file.
